


Die Like Nobody's Watching

by JayMor



Series: Teen Wolf Mixtape [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, But you know TW for Gerard, Gen, Gerard is generally dickish, Post-Nogitsune, Stiles Stilinski Needs a Hug, Suicide, he's also dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 02:54:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16484672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayMor/pseuds/JayMor
Summary: alternatively titled: Shut Up Daniel Powter It's Been a Bad WeekStiles survived Gerard and survived the Nogitsune, but fuck, surviving sucked. Hell, his birthday sure wasn't fun either, and maybe when he makes a bad joke? Well maybe, there was a little more truth to it than anyone thought.





	Die Like Nobody's Watching

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for very lightly alluded to sexual assault #Gerard, as well as for suicide.  
> Suicide is in no way the answer to your problem. Please call the hotline 1-800-273-8255 if you're struggling. Someone will be able to help you.  
> Additionally, while generally glossed over in this fic, the way that Stiles chooses to kill himself here is VERY PAINFUL.

 “Make it home,” Stiles muttered to himself. “Make it home.” He repeated the words again and again like a mantra, letting the rhythm of the syllables calm him. Three beats and a rest. _Make it home_. Breathe. _Make it home_. Breathe. Rinse and repeat.

The pattern barely worked to stave off the building panic attack. His jeep was fuzzy in his vision. In his pocket his phone stayed silent, his message to Scott— _hey, I know you’re busy with pack stuff tonight but can I call?_ —still unread and unanswered. Three months prior he might have called Derek instead, or even Lydia. That wasn’t an option anymore. Hadn’t been for a while now, not since the Nogitsune. Not since Allison’s death.

He fumbled against his car door, fingers searching for a handle he couldn’t see clearly. Tears pricked at his eyelids, threatening to overspill. He brushed them away with a hurried back of his hand. He wouldn’t cry yet. Not now. Not while he was still in the open. He’d make it home first.

Or get in a car crash getting there.

Though fuck, if Stiles was being honest with himself—which he rarely was these days—his split from the pack had begun much sooner than the Nogitsune. He’d pulled away first, hadn’t fought it when Scott disappeared into closets with Allison or Derek held pack meetings without him. He hadn’t answered when Erica and Boyd knocked on his door, freshly healed, freshly saved, offering a brotherhood born through torture at Gerard’s hands.

It was no surprise the Nogitsune chose him to possess—intentionally isolated, full of darkness and struggling to accept a violation that only he and now-dead Gerard had known. He’d shut them all out. Scott, Derek, Erica, Boyd, Lydia, Isaac. Even his father, who’d wanted nothing more than to understand why bruises littered his son’s skin.

Stiles pulled into his driveway, unscathed despite his reckless driving. The panic attack was looming now, pressing down as the sight of his front door rendered his mantra _make it home make it home make it home_ irrelevant.

His father was not home. Wouldn’t be home. Not tonight. He had another double shift, for the fourth time this week even though Stiles knew that pulling more that two doubles in a week was against protocol. His father rarely came home anymore anyway, uncomfortable with the way that Stiles never smiled, the way his face remained blank and uncaring, shadowed in the echo of the Nogitsune.

His absence worked well enough for Stiles.

He swiped the bottle of whisky from the left drawer of his father’s desk, unconcerned that the missing alcohol would be noticed once his father returned. The benefits of addiction bred by tragedy—one alcoholic would not confront another.

Perhaps it was his father’s unspoken apology, the way he kept buying new bottles even when they disappeared with only a single suspect to blame. Stiles would thank him for that if he could, relieved by the way his throat burned from something more than the tears as he staggered to his room, back against the wall, and let the panic he’d been suppressing rush over him.

He sat till the shaking stopped, the bottle slick in his trembling grip.

He was tired.

Tired of the sad looks Scott gave him at school. Tired of the way his dad didn’t trust him. Tired of the panic. Tired of the pain. He let his eyes wander to the innocuous orange pill bottle stuffed in the crease between his nightstand and his bed. His mother’s hydrocodone. He doubted his father remembered it, remembered the night when his mother, in the throes of her delusions, threw the bottle at Stiles and demanded him to kill himself. In the flurry that followed no one noticed Stiles keep the painkillers.

He’d taken a few of them since that day, but not many. The bottle remained over half full, as if saved for something.

Stiles had done the math. Taking two instead of one could make him sick. Four might be enough to kill him. Eight definitely would. He could even take ten or twelve to make sure the action stuck. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been tempted before. He’d never caved though, not when he was needed by the pack, not when his mountain ash and his wolfsbane and his spark were _useful_.

He turned away from the bottle and stood, shucking off his pants to crawl into bed. He wouldn’t sleep tonight, that much he knew, but the covers were warm and he liked the way that he felt safe beneath them, like a child.

The morning came harsh. The sunlight through his window felt like murder on his hangover. His head hurt from his panic attack and nausea settled in his stomach like an uncomfortable roommate. He pulled on the pants he’d left on the floor the night before. So what if he repeated his outfits? The only person who ever cared was Lydia, and they weren’t exactly on speaking terms anymore.

The kitchen was empty, his dad conveniently absent. A note on the counter read: _big case at the station. be home late. happy birthday Stiles._ The sentiment made Stiles snort. Happy fucking birthday to him. At least his dad remembered, even if he didn’t intend to celebrate.

The pack certainly didn’t remember. Scott kept to the pack and Isaac, always with the same guilty, sad expression whenever Stiles made eye contact. Erica and Boyd didn’t look his way. Jackson shoved him into a locker. Stiles almost teared up, not because it hurt—though it did hurt—but because it reminded him so much of the old times when Scott wasn’t a werewolf and all they ever had to care about was whether or not they’d make first string.

Stiles focused on taking notes.

At lunch Stiles headed for his car. It was his birthday. He wasn’t going to spend in in class.

Jackson sneered at him as he passed by. “Ditching Stilinski?”

Stiles didn’t respond. Jackson shoved himself into his path instead, face pulled into an ugly leer. “What, you done talking to us now? Killing Allison wasn’t enough for you?”

“Jackson.”

Lydia’s voice was sharp, and Stiles almost felt grateful to her. He knew she didn’t speak up for him though. He spoke up for her friend, beautiful beautiful Allison, torn from the world by Stiles’ dirty hands.

Jackson turned away from Stiles to face her, eyes flint hard. “You can’t ignore the truth forever Lydia. He’s a fucking psychopath.”

“Jackson.” Lydia’s tone was warning now, bordering on almost dangerous. Jackson shrugged, clearly unphased, obviously angry.

“It’s fine,” Stiles broke in, voice quiet in the silence that shattered down the moment he opened his mouth. Lydia and Jackson both looked at him in a mix of amazement and horror. It had been over a month since they’d heard Stiles speak. “It’s fine,” Stiles repeated. “Jackson is right. I killed her. You have every right to be angry. And yes,” Stiles added on, staring at Jackson, “I’m ditching. It’s my birthday, and I’m going to go kill myself.”

Lydia turned pale. Jackson visibly jolted. Both were clearly discomfited. “That’s a sick joke Stilinski,” Jackson muttered.

Stiles laughed, a mirthless, empty sound. He didn’t tell them that he wasn’t sure he’d been joking, knew Jackson had heard it—his truth-steady heartbeat.

In fact, now that he’d voiced the idea, he couldn’t forget it. He’d never said it out loud before—at least, not to anyone who cared. Though honestly, it wasn’t likely that Jackson or Lydia cared anymore. But that was the thing. No one cared anymore. Fuck, even his dad couldn’t make time to come home on his _birthday_ , all because Stiles had been possessed by something old and intelligent and _horrible_ and Stiles had been forced to do horrible things because of it.

It hadn’t been him.

It _had_ been him.

But it hadn’t been _him_.

Why couldn’t they understand that?

Alternatively, why _wouldn’t_ they understand that?

Stiles wasn’t a fool. He knew the pack wasn’t always the brightest around, that sometimes they stuck their noses where they didn’t belong or rushed headfirst into problems that needed a little finesse, but _hell_ , none of them were stupid. Sure, Scott could be a little dense and Derek didn’t always like listening to voices of reason, but Boyd was generally calm and Erica terrifying enough that the pack listened to her and Lydia was almost better at the research now than Stiles had ever been.

In short, they had to know that Stiles couldn’t control himself. He couldn’t control the Nogitsune.

All they pain they felt, they _had_ to know that he felt it too, even more keenly than them because hell Allison’s death was hard on all of them, but they weren’t the ones who had washed their hands in her blood. So sure. It was his birthday, he obviously wasn’t wanted. What was stopping him from killing himself?

He’d even told someone about it.

If anyone cared, someone would call. Jackson wasn’t a quiet person. He’d rant about Stiles’ bad joke to the pack after school. Stiles could wait a few more hours, just a bit longer to see of any of them really wanted him alive. Just one last time, he could give them the benefit of the doubt.

He drove home.

No one pulled him over, even though he passed two different police cars and there was no way that they didn’t know it was his Jeep. Maybe his father had decided to give him a free pass on truancy today, happy birthday to him. Like the whiskey, it was another thing Stiles wouldn’t complain about.

He pulled into the driveway, uncaring that his Jeep was visible from the street. So what if he shouldn’t be home? At least this time they would know how to find him. No more hidden basements and pumping electricity and _terror_ _terror terror._ No more gasping for death. This time it would be a slide—a calm, bitter twinge of pain before nothing—blissful darkness and blessed painlessness.  

He moved to his laptop, idly opening a Word document. Maybe he could write something—a goodbye note, an _it’s all your fault_ note. His fingers danced loosely over the keys. _Hey guys, I guess you found my body_. Backspace. That wouldn’t work. _Surprise Jackson, I wasn’t joking._ He erased it again. Equally horrible. _I’m sorry._ Too cliché, and he wasn’t actually sorry. _Too little, too late._ It would work. That’s what he was after all.

The clock ticked slowly on. Four o’clock. Five o’clock. Six. Seven. Stiles’ phone stayed dark and silent.

No one was coming.

Stiles couldn’t find it in himself to be surprised. He pulled the bottle of pills from their hiding place and counted them out. One. Two. Three. Four. All the way to fifteen. There were fifteen pills total in the bottle. Stiles went to the kitchen and filled up a glass with water.

He took the first.

The pill was long and thin, and tasted bitter when it sat too long on his tongue.

He took the second. Then the third. He paused when he got to the fourth, then tipped his head back and swallowed that one too. He swallowed the fifth and the sixth together. At seven, he had to go refill his water glass. Eight through eleven he downed quickly. He did not swallow the last four pills.

Then he drank—everything left in the whiskey bottle—until there was nothing left, and the world grew blurry and tilted. Distantly, he felt his stomach hurt.

 

\---

 

His father found him early in the morning. He’d just returned home from work, carrying a birthday cake.

No one in the pack knew until the announcement at school, the principal’s voice echoing over the intercom _it is with regret that we inform you that Stiles Stilinski died some time last night there will be a vigil at 8 pm on the lacrosse field for anyone who wishes to attend._ It was Scott who called Derek to tell him the news, voice weak and shaking.

Jackson hadn’t shared Stiles’ bad joke. Instead he’d kept it secret, intent to talk to Stiles the next day. After all, it had only been a joke.

Too little.

Too late.

 

\---

 

The pack grieves. Stiles’ death is sudden and terrifying and _loss_ that echoes the pain Allison’s passing. There is an obituary in the paper, and at school there is an empty desk and an assembly about suicide prevention. On the first anniversary of his death they all gather, quiet and awkward until Isaac cracks a joke that is stilted and uncomfortable but enough to break the ice.

They keep living. Derek grows into his Alpha, working with Scott to build a pack that protects itself and Beacon Hills. Boyd and Erica marry, and in the spring after their high school graduation welcome a daughter into the world.

They move on. Their lives remain moving even as Stiles is slowly left behind. They grow closer, build connections without him. He is remembered, and thought of fondly, but his death does not stop them in their tracks, and the world spins on.

They become happy.

Stiles stays buried, six feet in the dirt.

 


End file.
